


with roses red come lilies white

by MashpotatoeQueen5



Series: let's dance in the kitchen and call it something like love [7]
Category: Batgirl (Comics), Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Adopted Children, Alfred Loves his Family, Alfred Pennyworth is a Saint, Alfred Pennyworth is the Best, Alfred Pennyworth-centric, And Alfred teaches her, Awesome Alfred Pennyworth, Ballroom Dancing, Because I can see Alfred liking it, Dancing, Dancing Lessons, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Families of Choice, Family Dynamics, Family Feels, Fluff, Gen, Good Grandparent Alfred Pennyworth, Grandparents & Grandchildren, Growing Old, Growing Up, Joyful, Love, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships, Radio, Sappy, Slice of Life, Slow Dancing, Soft Alfred Pennyworth, Stephanie Brown Needs a Hug, Stephanie Brown is a good bean, Stephanie Brown-centric, Stephanie wants to learn to dance, Strength, The Hobbit References, This whole thing is just about Alfred loving his family, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Unconventional Families, What did we do to deserve this man, What did we do to deserve this man?, dancing in the kitchen, please understand, soft, this whole thing is so soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:48:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23707138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MashpotatoeQueen5/pseuds/MashpotatoeQueen5
Summary: When Alfred was a young man, running away from responsibilities and still looking for purpose, he had picked up a worn second hand copy ofThe Hobbit,and had read about cozy holes deep in the ground, and how they meant comfort, and had felt a longing he had never known.There and back again,he thinks, and there is a lifetime caught in those words. Wayne Manor is no hobbit hole, but it is home nonetheless, and he will welcome those he can.
Relationships: Stephanie Brown & Alfred Pennyworth
Series: let's dance in the kitchen and call it something like love [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1665436
Comments: 12
Kudos: 94





	with roses red come lilies white

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Synapse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synapse/gifts).



> Song Title and Inspiration from Above The Clouds of Pompeii, by Bear's Den
> 
> Thanks to Synpase for the song recommendation. :)
> 
> ACCEPTING PROMPTS!!

Alfred purposefully does not look up when he hears the quiet slip of bare feet against tiled floors. He’s not entirely sure who his visitor is, to be honest, because contrary to popular claims otherwise he is _not_ omnipotent.

However, he _does_ have certain… suspicions.

And so when young Stephanie Brown creeps into his kitchen in the early hours of the morning, he can’t say that he’s surprised.

“Greetings, Miss Brown.”

“Hi, Alfie.”

He focuses on making muffins as the young woman behind him finds a seat on the island counter, biting back the gentle chidings that want to escape: here is a time and place for proper etiquette, and a nervous child seeking help outside of her comfort zone is not one of them. 

Keeping quiet, he works on measuring the flour and the sugar, sifting them into his favourite yellow bowl. The radio is playing softly in the background, a quiet station for a quiet morning, and he mentally adds bicarbonate powder to the grocery lists because they will soon be running out. 

Outside, the birds are starting to chirp. There is a gentle sort of stillness settled over the manor, his gathered family almost entirely sleeping a night of cold rain and fighting Gotham’s criminal underbelly off in their warm beds.

Well, most of them.

Alfred keeps quiet, lets Stephanie gather her thoughts as he whisks in eggs and milk. He has hosted enough troubled teens in his small kingdom of cupboards and appliances and window sills full of herbs to know when it was best to nudge and when it was best simply to wait. 

These old walls and their passing generations, wisened hands gripping young unscarred ones, filling palms with knowledge and wisdom and all the things that are not spoken. 

Alfred is old. He knows these walls. He’s seen time pass, on and on and on.

He keeps quiet. He listens.

And then, finally, “Alfie… can I ask you something?”

For a moment he considers turning around, but then he decides it is best to keep at what he’s doing. He mixes in berries until everything is just combined.

“Yes, of course. What is it, Miss Brown?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see that she’s biting her lip.

“Do you think that it would be possible for you to… um. For you to teach me how to dance?”

Alfred thinks _Ah,_ and just that. There’s a gala coming up that the young woman has been invited to, and although she had never expressed any interest in knowing the formal twists and twirls of the socialites _before_ , before the entire situation surrounding her death, people change and people grow, and he suspects that knowing the steps is a safety mechanism now more than any desire to fit in.

The radio is playing, and when he turns to face her, there is a tell-tale redness to her face and a set of diverted eyes. If her hair wasn’t kept up in a messy bun, he was sure she’d be wearing it as a blonde curtain to block her features. 

He wants to tell her not to fret, that there is no judgement among his marble counters and well-stocked pantry. That this is a place of quiet solace and warm hearth. But he doesn’t, for he knows it won’t help.

When Alfred was a young man, running away from responsibilities and still looking for purpose, he had picked up a worn second hand copy of _The Hobbit,_ and had read about cozy holes deep in the ground, and how they meant comfort, and had felt a longing he had never known.

_There and back again,_ he thinks, and there is a lifetime caught in those words. Wayne Manor is no hobbit hole, but it is home nonetheless, and he will welcome those he can.

Stephanie looks at him, aged by a lifetime of pain and hardships, and young enough still to go on many adventures yet. And Alfred looks at her and wants to tell her stories of a young man terrified of settling down, of making connections, and how he found himself willingly a part of a found family all to his own, about how there is wisdom in his soul and it was hard worn and yet he is here and it is _worth it._

He wants to tell her not to be afraid. But he doesn’t.

Instead he says, “Of course. Come, then. We have a few minutes yet till the oven preheats.”

She blinks up at him.

“You mean- right now? Already? You sure you don’t want to do it some other time…?”

“Quite sure,” he says, and then he turns the radio up and offers a prim little bow to his young charge, if only to see her smile.

“Shall we?”

And she hesitates, staring at him, standing on the precipice of action and inaction and all that lies between.

But she was a Robin. She _is_ a hero, has always been a hero, and she knows how to jump.

She does.

Stephanie stands one angry feat, decision made and hesitation gone. She offers a neat little bow in turn, stepping forward into the swelling music, bare soles pressing against white tiles. 

Alfred places her hands in the appropriate positions, gives her the rundown on the steps, and starts counting as he swings her round and round.

The song is a sad quiet thing. Something soft and something repeating, a message stretched across the ages, about a love that lasts and echoes.

He’s not paying much attention to the words, he’s paying attention to the rhythm, and he nudges her toes to point in the right direction and gives her a twirl to watch her laugh. Young and carefree and alive, and he thinks about how she should have so much more to smile about and how _unfair_ it is that she doesn’t.

But life is such a fickle thing, and they are both laughing now.

Bare feet against the tiled floor, spinning round and round and round. Heads held high against a lifetime of hardships, and so many years left to go.

Alfred thinks, _the road goes ever on and on,_ and Stephanie’s eyes spark as she surprises him and twirls him in turn. He goes willingly enough, allowing the awkward spin under her arched hand, and the quiet joy that comes from it echoes deep inside his soul.

Growing up, he has faced wartime and peacetime, has held a broken sort of power in the palms of his hands and abused it, has learned from it with lessons that weigh down upon the soul. There is phoenix fire in his chest. There is so much more.

He is grown, now, and growing older. But he hopes he will never be too old for this, dancing with family as the sun rises from it’s downy bed, painting the sky alive with colours and coaxing the birds to burst into higher levels of song.

His young dancing partner has learned harder things than a few repetitive steps, has learned how to fight and how to bare her teeth and how to _live_ in the face of a world bearing down, and so she picks it up easily. 

(There, too, is phoenix fire. Rising from the ashes is no singular event.)

Stephanie bites her lips and furrows her brow in concentration, switches positions so that she’s now in the lead, and Alfred raises his eyebrows but does not protest, following along with the opposite form easily enough

They dance in the kitchen and they call it something like love, something like _joy_ , and there are universes in their chests and they cannot hold. Lifetimes stretch ahead of them and lifetimes stretch behind, and they are the collections of moments that they hold close in their minds, flaring dawns rising from deep within the dark.

This is one of them.

For this is how you keep your head held high in the face of a world that tries so hard to break you down. This is how you _live,_ even when you have been shattered and renewed in phoenix fire, kicking and screaming and holding on despite it all.

Life happens and you define yourself in the aftermath. Here they are, defined in their own scripts, in their swaying steps, and this is not nothing.

Spinning round and round and round. It is a waltz and it is a moment and it is a universe held close to the chest. The house will be waking up soon, but not yet, not _yet_ , and for now they continue to dance.

Stephanie laughs, bright and brilliant. She is a sunrise of her own making.

_Good morning indeed,_ Alfred thinks, and then he joins in, offering quiet sparks of joy made tangible, dancing on and on and on.

**Author's Note:**

> Have any good dancing music? Have a dancing prompt?  
> Let me know! 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed. Stay safe, my peeps!


End file.
